


You've Got Something I Need

by paradis



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Detectives Stilinski & Hale, M/M, brief angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-08
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-12-07 20:51:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/752949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paradis/pseuds/paradis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is a moment, right when they meet, that Stiles thinks, <i>I could really fall in love with this man.</i></p><p>And he doesn’t even try to fight it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Got Something I Need

**Author's Note:**

> Wheeeee, here we go again! 
> 
> So here's an AU I've been working on for about a month maybe? And I've hated and loved and hated again and then loved again, but everyone kept supporting me like a million times over. Which. Y'all are so great. 
> 
> Thanks a million to my beta/best friend MirajaneScarlet because she always encourages me and is too good for me. 
> 
> Warning for flashbacks like hella crazy lots. But in a good way. I hope. I also switched POV's which I _never_ do, so please, don't hesitate to tell me like, "Korynn, you did too much, pull it back. A lot." 
> 
> Title is from OneRepublic's 'Something I Need' because. Just because.

++ _Then_ ++

The captain pairing them together was probably the worst decision he's ever made, Stiles thinks as he dumps his box-o'-crap on his desk. He's newly promoted, a homicide detective in the great city if New York, and he's staring at a desk across from that is neatly organized - almost obsessively so - blankly. Stiles himself doesn't believe in organization when it comes to his desk. He prefers clutter, prefers to have to hunt things down when he needs them.

Well. Okay he doesn't prefer it, but he doesn't have the attention span to alphabetize his files and color code his pens or whatever. Detective Hale, apparently, _makes_ time for it. 

Stiles blows out a sigh and starts unpacking.

"What are you doing?" 

Stiles jumps and the picture frame of him and his father on their annual fishing trip last summer clatters onto the desk. He whirls around. He can only assume it's Detective Hale who is glaring at him. He's heard the rumors around the station - Hale is brutal in the interrogation room, can make someone crack just by giving them a certain fierce look. Stiles had planned on giving Hale the benefit of the doubt but damn, that's a scary glare. 

"I um - Detective Stiles Stilinski," Stiles offers, sticking a hand out. 

Hale stares down at it. 

Stiles chews on his bottom lip. Suddenly he realizes that no, the captain has made probably the _smartest_ decision he could have. Stiles is light while Derek is dark. Stiles can play good cop while Derek can play bad, threatening and growling, while Stiles eases answers out of weaker suspects or witnesses. Stiles sees exactly what the captain did, and he has to bite back a grin. 

"Derek Hale," Hale grunts finally, taking Stiles' hand in a tight grip. 

Stiles thinks they'll get along just fine. 

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

Stiles tries to never drink too much, but sometimes he can't help it. Here in Beacon Hills there aren't too many cases that go wrong, so the ones that do seem to always hit Stiles hard. His dad constantly tells him he's too skilled to be a detective in such a small town. 

Stiles just rolls his eyes and tells him he's happy where he is, despite the constant urge nagging at him in the pit of his stomach to be doing _more,_ to be working _more._

Beacon Hills is an easy town, for the most part. The cases are always so simple, so cut and dry, that Stiles gets _bored_ solving them. He'll always feel bad for the victims, though. 

But some nights, when he gets home, he's exhausted from sitting at his desk doing nothing but paperwork and staring blankly at one of the ugly station walls. Stiles isn't good at sitting and waiting. Back in New York they hardly ever had time to sit. 

But - he tries to forget about New York. Those nights he comes home and sets out to get rip roaring drunk - those are the days he's spent thinking about old cases and old times and people he used to know, things he used to do. 

Those are the nights that hurt the most. 

Stiles tries to stay away from the drinks, but there are some nights he just can't stop himself. 

Call it having no willpower. 

+ _Derek_ +

He hates his new partner. 

He's not _new_ anymore, Derek supposes. But he still hates him. He's nothing like his _old_ partner, the one who Derek broke highest solve record with, the one Derek bantered with and laughed with and maybe fell in love with.

Probably fell in love with.

The thing is, that's probably where he went wrong. Derek knows the rules. He knows not to mix work with personal life, but somewhere along the way Stiles was suddenly every part of _all_ of Derek's life. Stiles softened Derek's jagged edges, made him think more about strategy instead of just barging into a place on a hunch. Stiles got Derek to smile even when the cases were toughest and they were on a three day stretch of no sleep and interviewing terrified witnesses. 

New York is filled with difficult and sometimes gruesome robberies and murders, and so many are unsolvable. It made Derek mad for so long until Stiles gently told him that there's always gonna be the one that gets away. Stiles bluntly told Derek he wasn't a superhero and the weight of the world wasn't on his shoulders. 

It's everything Derek had heard before, but never so matter of fact, and it gave Derek a new respect for his partner. 

They worked well together.

Derek and the new partner? They've had three fists fights over stupid shit, and the new guy has requested a transfer three separate times. The captain has kept him there because all the other detectives aren't desperate enough to have to work with Derek.

Derek can't blame them.

++ _Then_ ++

“No.” 

“It’s entirely plausible – the guy is crazy, he swears his mom is hiding it somewhere, kills her to get the thing out of her house, only to realize it’s not there. Stages it like a robbery gone bad.” 

“He was not looking for a _nuclear weapon_ in his mother’s house.” 

Stiles slams the file down on Derek’s desk and huffs, frustrated. “He’s a war vet. Served in Afghanistan twice and Iraq once. Last time over there his unit got hit with an IED while trying to deliver food to some kids from the village. Psych records say PSTD. Say he’s convinced everyone has got an ulterior motive. Derek he _asked_ us if there was evidence of anything taken during the break in. He was _curious._ And not in a grieving way.” 

“It’s out of left field,” Derek replies, rolling his eyes. “I know you to it always has to be the most ridiculous thing you can come up with, but it was a standard break in gone wrong, Stiles. I promise you.” 

Stiles lifts his chin, defiant. “Sometimes, there’s a feeling in your gut. Have you ever felt it, Derek? That _thing_ niggling at the pit of your stomach, insisting there’s more to this than meets the eye. It insists that you have to find the truth. And you feel like… like if you ignore it you’ll never be able to forgive yourself. Can you really ignore that feeling, Derek?” 

Derek raises his eyes from his paperwork slowly, looking up to meet Stiles’ insistent gaze. “No,” he says finally. “No, I can’t.” 

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

Lydia Martin sits across from Stiles and the Sheriff, wringing her hands together and chewing on her bottom lip. 

Stiles has seen her frequently since returning to Beacon Hills – they met for lunch once and chatted about old high school acquaintances, and Lydia told him about her wedding with Jackson, about how Scott and Allison were doing. Stiles supposes they hadn’t planned the lunch so much as Lydia had seen him sulking in the checkout line at the Minit-Mart, sunglasses on, trying to hide his hangover from the world. He’d been back just one week, and he was spending his time wallowing, and Lydia had never taken no for an answer. He probably owes her one, since she’s the reason he pulled out of his depression in the first place. She’d forced him to talk during that lunch, something that even his father had been walking on too thin of ice to do. 

“I suppose – I should just come right out and say it. I’ve been working on something… potentially dangerous.” 

Stiles arches a brow and glances over at his father. He’s wearing the same curious expression. “I thought you were reporting a robbery?” Stiles asks patiently. 

Lydia huffs, wrings her hands again. “That’s just the thing,” she says, looking up at him. “That’s what’s been stolen.” 

“This… dangerous thing?” the Sheriff asks. “It’s been stolen?” 

“What is it?” Stiles blurts out. 

Lydia takes a deep breath. “It’s a chemical. It could – Stiles, Sheriff, if this is exposed to the community, it could wipe out this town and three others surrounding us.” 

Stiles inhales sharply. 

“Start from the beginning,” the Sheriff says wearily, and Stiles checks to make sure the tape recorder is on. 

Lydia tells them of how she’s been working on this chemical from the government from her lab at the community college. They’d asked her to work on it, but with her marriage to Jackson just starting out, she’d refused to relocate to D.C., so they’d paid the college a small fortune to rent out and lock up one lab for her to work in. “It was always locked,” Lydia says. “I – and a small handful of government officials who come to check up on my progress – are the only ones who have access to it. Even the product – it was locked airtight in a container that was only accessible by fingerprints. I went to the lab to work today, and it was _gone._ ” 

“Jesus,” Stiles scrubs at his face. Next to him, the Sheriff looks just as nervous and exhausted. 

“Any idea who would have wanted it?” 

“No. The information was classified,” Lydia says, and then adds sharply, “and I’ve not told anyone other than the two of you what I was working on.” 

“Mum’s the word,” Stiles nods, knowing what Lydia is implying. Lydia looks relieved. 

“Here’s the problem,” Lydia tells them, like she’s in charge of the case. “My bosses are coming to see this product next week. And I don’t have it. And I haven’t told them it’s stolen. The other problem is that the chemical is still a little… unstable.” 

“Unstable… how?” Stiles asks slowly, but the niggling at his stomach tells him exactly what she’s talking about. 

“Unstable like… possibly we only have a few days before there’s a chemical massacre because someone took it out of its normal environment. It’s not ready to be exposed to natural temperatures or environments. I haven’t _tested_ it in those kinds of situations,” Lydia says. 

“You go to the lab with Lydia,” the Sheriff tells Stiles. “I’ve got a phone call to make.” 

“You can’t let people you don’t completely trust know,” Lydia snarls at him. “This is _dangerous._ ” 

The Sheriff nods. “Ms. Martin, I completely understand. I won’t tell anyone I don’t have to tell. But we’re a little out of our league here. It’s been a couple years since Stiles has dealt with anything high profile, and he’s always had a partner to work with him.” Stiles flinches, and Lydia drills her gaze into him. “I’m just going to call and see if we can fly someone with as much experience as Stiles to work with him. I have an old friend who owes me a favor.” 

The Sheriff gets up out of his seat. “Tell Cap I said hi,” Stiles tells him mindlessly, gathering his things up so he can follow Lydia to the lab. 

“How do you know that’s who I’m calling?” 

“You saved his life, he owes you favors forever, remember? That’s how I got my job?” The Sheriff grins for a second before it fades away again. 

“Stiles, we have to find this thing.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles nods. 

“It’s not that I don’t have faith in you –” 

“Hey, I get it,” Stiles says kindly. “There are a lot of lives at risk. I don’t blame you, alright?” The Sheriff claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder before walking out. Stiles looks at Lydia. “Ready?” 

Lydia nods. 

+ _Derek_ +

“Hale,” Captain shouts from his office. “Get in here.” 

“Jesus,” Derek sighs under his breath before pushing the file he was reading out of the way and getting up to follow him. He steps into the Captain’s office, arms crossed, already on guard. It wouldn’t be the first time in the last two years he’s been called in just to get screamed at. If Derek weren’t one of the best detectives on the force the Captain probably would’ve fired him the _first_ time Derek acted out. 

“I’ve got a job for you,” the Captain says, leaning back in his seat and studying Derek carefully. 

“Is this about the Smith case, because we’re working on that, I think I’ve even got a lead –” 

The Captain shakes his head. “No. I’ve got a _job_ for you. A friend of mine has a… dangerous case back out in his hometown. He couldn’t give me all the details – something about it being classified. But he’s asking me to send my best detective out to him to work with him and _his_ best detective. It’s a small town, they don’t see much action, so it’s a little out of their league. They’re worried.” 

“Okay…” Derek says slowly. 

“Great,” the Captain claps his hands together. “Here’s your flight information. You take the red eye out to California tonight, and the Sheriff will meet you at the airport. Lead detective on the case is already out trying to gather information. You can meet up with him tomorrow and get filled in. And Hale?” 

“Yes?” Derek bites out, grinding his teeth. 

“Work well with these people, because they are my _friends._ Understood?” There’s a gleam in the Captain’s eye that Derek doesn’t much like, but he can’t do anything about it. It’s his job on the line. 

“Yes, Sir,” he says. 

“Good. See you when the case is solved,” the Captain says, and Derek is dismissed. 

He goes home and throws a couple different outfits into a duffel bag, along with his toiletries. He makes sure he’s got his badge, and that the apartment is locked up tight. He can’t take his own weapon, so he’ll have to use one of the station’s he’ll be working at. It makes him feel uncomfortable, not being able to use his own gun, but he tamps down the frustration and recognizes this as the Captain’s punishment for putting him through hell the last two years. 

++ _Then_ ++

“Best buddy cop movie.” 

“Lethal Weapon.” 

“ _No,_ ” Stiles says, laughing, taking a drink of his beer and setting back on the bar. “Just. No. Bad Boys.” 

Derek rolls his eyes. “You would,” he retorts. 

“Hey, this isn’t so bad, right?” Stiles nudges him a couple minutes later. They’re coming off a three day case and Derek is exhausted, but Stiles had mentioned beers, and he’d found enough energy in him to follow Stiles to the bar around the corner. 

Stiles is right. Derek actually likes Stiles, despite all the arguments they’ve had. They work well together, and Stiles is a good cop, an excellent detective. 

“No,” Derek says, corners of his mouth turning up. “No, it’s not so bad.” 

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

“Well, nothing else has been touched,” Stiles announced dumbly. 

Lydia gives him a dirty look. “I _know_ that. I already _said_ that. Stiles, I’m beginning to lose faith in your detective skills. Rapidly.” 

“I’m just a little – well. Lydia, you’ve basically just told me there’s a chemical agent out in the public that could kill us all in as little to three days if we don’t find it. Even in _New York_ I’ve never dealt with something like this. You’re like. Literally an evil genius.” 

Lydia huffs. “It was _meant_ to be used for good.” 

“Mass deaths are good?” Stiles arches a brow. 

“Fine, it was _meant_ to be used as a weapon of defense for our country. They gave me a challenge and I accepted it, Stiles. You know how I am.” 

Stiles nods, looking around the lab. Everything seems to be in place, but there’s something fluttering at Stiles, telling him to look closer. He walks through the room three times before he notices it. The lock around the filing cabinet is scratched at, as though someone picked it. “You keep important things in here?” Stiles taps at the cabinet. 

Lydia looks at him. “I’m working on a dangerous chemical weapon that involves spending days working through formulas. Of course I do. Why?” 

“Because somebody,” Stiles says, pulling the cabinet drawer open easily, “got into it.” 

“Shit,” Lydia says. 

“What now?” 

“Well, there was information on how to… let’s just say… make the chemical spread further.” 

“Jesus Christ, Lydia,” Stiles says, sifting through the remaining papers. He doesn’t understand much, but Lydia comes over and sorts through them with him, lips pursed. Finally she shoves the papers back in there and pulls away. 

“I can tell you one thing,” she says. “Whoever took this is smart. They knew exactly what they were looking for in this cabinet.” 

“Great,” Stiles says moodily. “I’ll have the crime lab come down, dust everything for prints. Nothing much we can do today otherwise. We can go for lunch and you can try and give me a list of maybe-possibly-suspicious people who would want at what you’ve been working on.” 

Lydia sighs. “There are a lot of people who hate me, Stiles.” 

“A lot of people smart enough to get into a code-locked room?” Stiles asks. 

“Well that narrows it down considerably.” 

+ _Derek_ +

Derek’s flight lands at four in the morning. He’s bleary eyed and exhausted, and when he doesn’t find his name right away near all the men holding cardboard signs with names on them, he seriously contemplates collapsing on a chair and sleeping the rest of the morning away. Right when he’s deciding which chair looks comfiest, a man in a Sheriff’s uniform appears, and Derek sighs. He walks up to him and offers a smile. “Sheriff?” 

“You the man Rick sent out?” the Sheriff grunts. He looks exhausted which doesn’t bode well for this case, Derek thinks. 

“Detective Hale,” Derek says, offering a hand. The Sheriff nods and takes it, shaking it.

“Sorry I’m late,” he tells Derek. “We were trying to compile a list of possible suspects within town limits. When that failed, we expanded the list but we were all out of people. It’s been a long day.” 

“Maybe you could explain the case to me,” Derek offers. “That way I could help come up with some theories on the drive back. It’ll keep us both awake.” 

The Sheriff grimaces. “Sure thing, kid. Let’s just grab some coffee before we head out. We’ve got a two hour drive ahead of us. My son would’ve come, but he was still talking things out with Lydia. The girl feels too guilty.” 

The Sheriff spends the first hour of the drive explaining the case and how far they gotten – not very far, in Derek’s opinion – and the second hour of the drive they come up with possible theories, each one getting crazier than the last as they got more and more tired. They pull up in front of a house, and the Sheriff parks. “I know you might want a hotel, later, but I gotta tell you, son, I’m too exhausted to drive you to one tonight. I’ve got a guest bedroom, although it hasn’t been touched in years. I can give you fresh sheets but it’s bound to be a bit dusty. I’d offer you my son’s old room, but he was planning on using it tonight.” 

“He doesn’t live here?” Derek asks for small talk. 

“Lives in a house three blocks down. Says he can’t bear to part from his old man, but I know the truth. He had a rough time back on his old force and came home to lick his wounds. Just hasn’t gotten back up yet. I can’t really tell him no – he’s a damn good detective, had the highest solve rate, with his partner. His boss practically begged him not to leave.” 

Derek winces. “Sometimes cases are hard,” he says quietly, and the Sheriff eyes him like he knows exactly what Derek’s been through. 

“S’ppose they are,” he says, and helps Derek pulls his things out of the trunk before they head into the house. 

The hall light is on when they get in, and Derek can smell coffee in the kitchen. Beside him, the Sheriff frowns. “Damn kid is supposed to be in bed. I told him a thousand times not to stay up all night.” 

“It doesn’t help the case,” Derek agrees knowingly. 

“Dad?” 

Derek freezes. His chest twinges, the scar over it seeming to burn. Into the foyer comes Stiles, and Derek inhales sharply. Across from him, Stiles freezes, eyes wide, lips parted in shock. “Stiles, what’s wrong?” the Sheriff demands. He glances back and forth between them. “Stiles?” 

“You – I – I should’ve known,” Stiles finally says, shaking his head. “Cap always does get his revenge.” 

Derek agrees. 

There’s never been a worse form of punishment than dangling the thing you want most but can’t have in front of you. 

++ _Then_ ++

“You are not _invincible_ ,” Stiles screams loudly, waving his hands at Derek. “You cannot just jump in front of bullets and expect me to be _grateful._ There was no reason for that!” 

“He was shooting at you,” Derek replies calmly, shrugging. 

“I am a cop just as much as you are, Derek,” Stiles snarls, stepping forward and shoving Derek. “I’m not weaker or dumber or less than you. You do not have to treat me like some damsel in distress that always needs protecting. I was wearing a vest just as you were. I would’ve been fine.” 

“Maybe I don’t like knowing what could’ve happened,” Derek snaps back, taking Stiles’ hands and pushing them away from his chest. 

“What could’ve happened, Derek? A couple of bruised ribs? It’s not the end of the world!” 

“He could’ve missed,” Derek growls. “He could’ve missed and hit you somewhere that _wasn’t_ protected, and then what? Then I’ve got a dead partner and a –” Derek cuts himself off. 

“Stop jumping in front of me, Derek,” Stiles says slowly. “And stop thinking about the what-ifs. You spend your life thinking about them, and you’ll miss out on the right _nows._ ” 

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

Stiles doesn’t know what to say. 

He’s pretty sure his heart skipped a couple beats, and he’s finding it hard to breathe. Derek is staring back at him with equally wide eyes, and his father is looking at them both, confused, and a little worried. Stiles chews on his bottom lip and tries to think of what else to say. Finally he settles on, “Well, I made coffee so…” 

And then turns around and walks back into the kitchen. He can hear his father heave a huge sigh before following him. Derek’s quick, quiet footsteps follow shortly after. 

Derek was always the quiet one. In everything he said or did, he was quiet. If they were walking through a crime scene, Derek seemed to make it his mission to sneak up on Stiles and scare him. When they were making an arrest, Derek was the one who would chase while Stiles complained. He never said anything without thinking, making pauses between conversation sometimes long and awkward. But the end result was that everything Derek ever said had _meaning_ behind it, Stiles thinks. 

They crowd around the table and Stiles pulls down three mugs and the creamer, setting them on the table before reaching for the coffee pot. He bought his dad a Keurig three years ago, but his dad prefers the old fashioned coffee maker, insisting it stays warmer and gets stronger. Stiles took it back to his apartment but he mostly uses it to make iced tea. 

Stiles pours creamer into his own cup, two scoops of sugar into his dad’s cup, and a scoop of sugar and a dash of cream into Derek’s cup without thinking, stirring them all quickly. When he turns back around Derek is staring down at the coffee, still wide eyed. “Sorry, I figured you still…” 

Derek doesn’t say anything for a long moment. “I do,” he finally says. 

Stiles is a little disappointed that’s all he’s got to say, but he doesn’t reply, just smiles instead. “Great. So, dad, did you fill him in on our case?” 

“Stiles, tell me what’s going on,” the Sheriff says. “Don’t change the subject, just tell me.” 

Stiles heaves a sigh. “Detective Hale was my partner back in New York.” 

The Sheriff narrows his eyes, looking at them both before he speaks again. “Is he the reason you left the force?” 

“No –” 

“Yes –” 

“I left because I wanted to,” Stiles snaps. “It’s none of your _business_ why I left.” And oh, Stiles feels so bad about the hurt look that flashes across Derek’s face right then, but he can’t find it in him to tell him why, to tell him that in a way, Derek _is_ the reason he left – but not like he thinks. 

The niggling tugs sharply at his stomach, and Stiles feels like throwing up. 

“If the two of you can’t work together…” The Sheriff starts, but Stiles is already shaking his head. 

“We can. We will. We _have_ to, or we’ll all end up dead. 

Derek sits at the table and nods, eyes shuttered. “I have no problem working with Stiles,” he says flatly. 

“Good,” Stiles says lightly. “That’s settled then. Now, I suppose we should all get some sleep, hmm? We can reconvene in the morning. Lydia plans to be here bright and early, just so you know,” he tells his father. 

“Lydia isn’t a police officer,” Derek protests. 

“No,” Stiles says, stiffening, “but she is key to this investigation, so she’ll be here, helping us. She’s the only one who could have any idea why anyone would want it. She’s the only one who knows how the chemical works. We can’t afford to not have her by our side. What if they decide they can’t figure it out and decide to take her?” 

“Always thinking outside the box still,” Derek hums, and Stiles glowers, picking his coffee mug up and dumping the remainder down the drain. 

“I’m going to bed,” he says. 

+ _Derek_ +

The Sheriff shows him the guest bedroom, and true to his word, it’s dusty, smells like the windows in the room haven’t been opened in years. He gets him new sheets and then stands there and stares blankly at him for a moment. “I don’t know what happened in New York,” he finally says. “But I do know that it messed Stiles up. He still hasn’t recovered. Now, he insists it isn’t your fault, and you’re saying different. So who should I believe? Normally I’d believe my son, but he kind of likes to play the martyr some days.” 

Derek stays quiet, thinking how to respond. When it comes down to it, he can either go with the truth, or he can lie and say he isn’t exactly sure _why_ Stiles left New York. He likes the Sheriff, and the Sheriff is a smart man, so he supposes he really only has one option. He shrugs. “I got shot,” he says. 

The Sheriff frowns. “That’s all? Stiles left because you got shot?” 

“No…” Derek says slowly. “But that’s all I feel comfortable telling you.” 

The Sheriff doesn’t look taken aback or angry. He just looks… satisfied. Like he knew that was all Derek was going to tell him in the first place. “Get some sleep,” he says gruffly. “Long day tomorrow, I’d assume.” 

“Goodnight, Sheriff.” 

The Sheriff pauses at the door. “Call me John,” he finally says, and strides out. 

++

Derek’s coming out of his bedroom when Stiles is coming out of the bathroom. Stiles stops, eyes on Derek’s bare chest, and suddenly Derek feels self-conscious. He fights the urge to cross his arms. They’re _his_ battle scars, and he’ll wear them proudly if he wants to. Stiles chews on his bottom lip and continues to stare at the smattering of scars on Derek’s chest. 

“Can I – um – excuse me,” Stiles finally says, slipping past Derek, expression vacant. He’s a ghost of the Stiles that Derek got to know in New York. He’s a blank clone of the Stiles Derek fell in love with. He doesn’t smile or laugh, he doesn’t have a million smart retorts. He’s bitter and empty and Derek feels _guilty,_ feels like it’s entirely his fault. 

His scars burn again. 

++ _Then_ ++

_You will tell him you love him._

“No I won’t,” Derek says loudly to the steamed up mirror, rolling his eyes. He runs a towel through his hair one more time and then walks out of the bathroom. Thankfully fully dressed, because Stiles is standing in the middle of his living room, staring at him curiously as he walks out. Derek isn’t even surprised when Stiles shows up randomly anymore. 

It’s on the pretense of working on cases, but Derek knows that Stiles gets lonely in his apartment. His friends are all back home, and he has a few friends on the force, but none that he’s really close with. Derek also knows that Stiles thinks of him as his best friend, which is also code for _friend zoned._ After a lifetime of shit-luck, Derek can’t say he’s surprised that the gods or fates or whatever have chosen Stiles Stilinski to be his best friend and also the man Derek would fall forever in love with. 

“Were you just talking to yourself?” Stiles asks him. 

Derek blinks. “No. I was telling you to go away.” 

“Please, you didn’t even know I was here. You were totally giving yourself a pep talk in your bathroom mirror.” Stiles grins crookedly at Derek, and Derek’s heart kind-of-sort-of skips a beat. Derek inhales and rolls his eyes. “You can tell me the truth. I give myself pep talks all the time: ‘you’re a gorgeous person, Stiles. It just takes a special person to love you.’ ‘you’re a brilliant person Stiles, plus you’ve got great abs.’” 

“You’ve never had abs in your _life_ ” Derek retorts. Stiles looks hurt. He pulls his shirt off to show an – admittedly impressive – six pack that Derek is somehow surprised he’s got. 

“Sit ups, babe,” Stiles says mockingly. “Sure, they don’t match up to your…. Is that an eight or twelve pack?” Stiles’ eyes roam over Derek’s chest. 

“Get out, asshole,” Derek scowls, throwing the towel that was meant for his bedroom hamper at Stiles’ head. Stiles laughs, throwing it back before collapsing on Derek’s couch. Derek throws his towel into his bedroom, not caring where it lands for the moment. 

“So I thought we could work on the Hanson case for a little while. And then I brought some movies. I’m counting on you for food though, dude.” 

“You _always_ count on me for food,” Derek says, sitting down next to him. Stiles grins at him. 

“You make a damn good pizza.” 

“I am not making pizza again, we just had it. Something healthier, maybe. Chicken,” he decides. Stiles wrinkles his nose, but nods. 

“I’m willing to accept it,” he says seriously. Derek punches him in the shoulder. 

“You have no choice,” he replies. 

They work on the case for a few hours. It’s one in a long string of robberies that’s been going on in an upper class apartment building. Mostly jewelry. Stiles is the one that finds the lead. 

“Same security guard on shift,” he says, stretching and leaning back against the couch cushions after three hours. 

Derek snaps his head up. “What?” 

Stiles yawns. “Same security guard on shift takes a break that coincides within the time of the robbery every single time.” 

Derek looks down at his own file and whistle lowly. “Damn,” he says. 

“Admit it,” Stiles says, stretching his arms up towards the ceiling, arching his back until it cracks. “I’m good.” 

There, in the Sunday evening sunlight, his eyes twinkling, and his lips twitched up into a cocky grin, Derek has never agreed with Stiles more. 

“You’re good,” he says. 

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

“Allison’s aunt is in town again.” 

Stiles straightens up, blinking at Scott. “Does that mean I have to prepare my couch for your ass to sleep on it again this year?” 

Scott scowls. “She knows how I feel about her. We get in the same fight every time.” 

“Just because her aunt calls you _puppy,_ ” Stiles teases. Scott sighs. 

“It’s not just that, and you know it. She’s not a good person, Stiles. She stole money from Allison’s parents. Somehow shortly after Allison’s entire family is dead by a house fire, yet Allison miraculously survives. She treats Allison like she’s twelve still. Allison doesn’t love her either, but the fight is always the same. Kate is family so I’m just supposed to like, accept her or something. This time she wants to stay with us. Says she’s planning on staying in Beacon Hills to ‘catch the show,’ whatever that means.” 

“That’s odd,” Stiles says. The niggling is back in his stomach, but he can’t place it. “Are there any shows coming to Beacon Hills?” 

Scott thinks about it for a moment. “The circus is coming next month.” He looks horrified. “Oh god, Stiles, don’t tell me she’s going to be here a _whole_ month.” 

Stiles resists the urge to tell him that if he and his dad and Lydia and Derek don’t get this case solved and find Lydia’s weapon of doom, they’re all dead before the week’s out. Instead he rolls his eyes. “Do you really think she’s staying in Beacon Hills for a _circus_? Maybe the high school is having a play or something.” 

It doesn’t sound right, but Stiles tries to brush away the feeling. 

He and Scott are eating on Stiles’ dinner break, the first break he’s had all day. He’d spent the day ruling out possible suspects and possible hiding places with Lydia and Derek while his dad took teams around to some of the old abandoned buildings to see if possibly the weapon of doom was there. After Stiles’ first week of wallowing, once Lydia had pulled him out of his funk, he’d manned up and called Scott to tell him he was back home, and things had fallen back just like normal. He and Scott had lunch once a week, and he and Scott and Allison had dinner every Friday night. Sometimes Lydia and Jackson joined them. 

His phone goes off. Text message from Derek. Stiles pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. _where are you._ No question mark, no capitalization. Just like old times. Another incoming text, this time: _late._

 _I have twenty minutes, asshole,_ Stiles taps out, and then picks up his plate and takes it into the kitchen. The rest of the Chinese takeout he and Scott had ordered is sitting on his counter, and Stiles knows he doesn’t have time to put it away, but it’s going to bug him knowing it’s sitting out all night. “Hey, can you put this stuff away before you leave?” Stiles pokes his head into the living room. Scott looks up from the basketball game he’s watching. 

“You leaving?” 

“Yeah man, big case at the station, pulling overtime this week,” Stiles replies distractedly, strapping his gun back on and making sure his badge is around his neck. He rolls the sleeves of his sweater up and goes to put his boots on. 

“What kinda case?” Scott asks around a mouthful of broccoli. 

“The kind I can’t talk about. Scotty, buddy, I love you, but if you stain my couch with broccoli and sweet n’ sour, I’m gonna punch you in the dick.” Stiles finishes lacing his booth up and grabs the keys to his car. “Clean up, please? I gotta go.” 

“Yeah man, no problem,” Scott says after he swallows, and Stiles smiles fondly at him before leaving. 

Derek is outside the station tapping his foot impatiently when Stiles pulls up. Stiles locks his car and walks up to him, hands in his pockets. “Got your panties in a bunch?” he asks Derek. 

Derek clicks his teeth together angrily. “In case you hadn’t _noticed,_ we’re sort of in a time constraint here,” he hisses. 

“Derek, we’ve hit a wall, admit it. The only thing we’re doing right now is burning ourselves out.” 

Derek blinks at him. “That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” he says finally, quietly. 

Stiles freezes, straightens up, stares at the door in front of him. “What?” 

“Stiles, you’re the one who – you talk about how there’s always a smoking gun, we just have to keep _looking._ You tell – you told me all the time about how just sitting around waiting wasn’t going to get anything done. If we sit around waiting right now, we sit around waiting for our _deaths._ And I already did that once. I don’t want to do it again.” 

Stiles whirls around. Derek’s staring down at the pavement, arms crossed. “Don’t you _tell_ me about sitting around waiting for your death, Derek,” he snarls, stepping forward and shoving at him. Derek stumbles back and looks up, surprised. “I _waited_ for your death. They told me you weren’t going to live. They told me you were dead. They kept saying _not out of the woods yet,_ and I knew what that meant, okay, I knew because that’s all they ever said about my mom, too. I waited for your death knowing the _whole time_ that it should have been me! So fuck you, Derek.” 

Just then, the Sheriff comes running out. “It’s in the building,” he yells at them. “We’ve got fifteen minutes; it’s in the building.” 

“What building?” Stiles asks.

“The _station,_ Stiles. It’s in the _station._ ”

++ _Then_ ++

There is a ghost of laughter still on Derek’s face when he gets shot. 

Four times. 

It’s the Hanson case, still. The security guard. A whole group of them, in on it together. They don’t want to go to prison, they’ve accomplished so much already. They were only getting what they deserved, they tell Stiles and Derek. 

Stiles was in front of Derek. He was meant to be hit with those bullets, but he wasn’t. 

The guards had all run, scattering through the building, and Stiles had made a joke – some stupid joke that Derek had laughed at. Four years as partners, and Stiles was still so surprised and happy to hear that laugh from Derek, see that smile on his face. 

And it’s still there when one of the guards steps out. Derek sees him first and jumps in front of Stiles. 

_Always playing the hero,_ Stiles head whispers what he’d once yelled at Derek – what he’d yelled at Derek again and again, as Derek constantly tried to protect Stiles. 

_Perfect partners,_ Cap had told Stiles. 

Not so perfect anymore, Stiles thinks as he holds Derek, choking back sobs. Dispatch has sent an ambulance out but that doesn’t mean anything. Detective Derek Hale is bleeding out. “Please,” Stiles whispers quietly. Derek’s hands are bloody. “You’re such an asshole. Those were meant for me.” 

“They’re always meant for you,” Derek says, grinning bloodily at Stiles. There’s blood in his mouth, blood everywhere. Stiles hates the smell. “I always get shot ‘cos of you.” 

“God, you’re an idiot,” Stiles shudders. “Why?” 

“You’re good,” Derek pats his hand. “You’re _good._ ” 

And then he passes out.

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Derek_

His hands are trembling. Lydia makes him hold it, but he can’t stop his hands from shaking. Stiles was worse. There’s not a calm person in the room now, except maybe Lydia. But as Derek studies her, he can tell that she, too, is nervous. Somehow whoever had done this had set it up on a timer, and now it’s up to Lydia to deactivate it. Beacon Hills doesn’t have a bomb squad to help. 

Stiles had laughed bitterly when Derek had mentioned calling them in. “We’re a town of less than a thousand people, I don’t think we ever thought a _bomb squad_ was necessary. 

Derek absently wonders how Stiles has ever managed to stay busy here in this tiny town with its tiny police force. It’s so different from what Stiles was used to, from what Stiles grew into his job with. Derek supposes this case has been Beacon Hills’ biggest case in a decade, and the whole town won’t even know about it. 

Unless they’re all dead. 

_Seventeen minutes and counting down._ The red numbers blink dauntingly, and Derek tries to keep his breathing calm. 

“Lydia – ” 

“Shut up, Stiles,” Lydia grits out, staring down at all the wires, concentrating. “Hale, _quit shaking._ ” 

“I am holding what could ultimately be responsible for all our deaths,” Derek says, matter-of-fact. 

“Inevitably responsible, if you keep shaking,” Lydia tells him. 

“Fuck,” Stiles says across the room. 

“Tell them how we found it, John,” Lydia says calmly. John snaps his head up from where he’s staring down at the chemical weapon. 

“Evidence locker. I had to go down there for something today for a deputy, and I kept hearing this clicking sound. There it was.” 

“But why _here,_ ” Stiles wonders out loud. 

Derek grits his teeth. “How about,” he says lightly, “we discuss that later. Perhaps when we’re _not dead._ ” 

“God, Stiles, I see the potential for him,” Lydia snaps. “Whiney.” 

Derek looks out the corner of his eyes and sees Stiles standing there, clench-jawed, fingers curling into his palms in a tightened fist, frustrated and anxious. Derek knows all the signs. He’s seen Stiles in this state before, during a raid, trying to solve a robbery gone wrong – he’s seen the same expression. It’s Stiles feeling _helpless._ Derek once saw it in the middle of a hospital while the EMTs rushed him to the surgeons, shouting over him about stats and touch and go, and he barely made it. He glimpsed over just once, and saw Stiles standing there, covered in blood, looking absolutely terrified and helpless. 

“Is there anything we can do?” John asks. 

“Let me work,” Lydia retorts. 

There’s five minutes on the clock when Lydia takes a deep breath. “I think I’ve stabilized it. I injected another formula I hadn’t gotten around to mixing with it before it was stolen. Now all that’s left to do is disconnect the wires before the timer goes off, or it _will_ blow. So. Game of Russian roulette, perhaps? Green, or red?” She holds up the wires. 

“Green,” Stiles says. “Wait, no red. No – green – no – you know what, just know I love you all okay?” 

Lydia rolls her eyes, reaches forward, and picks up the green wire. Behind him, Derek hears Stiles’ sharp intake of breath. Derek closes his eyes. 

He swears he can hear the snip of the scissors, like a pin dropping in a deadly silent room. But when there’s a sudden lightness to his palms, he opens them to find Lydia holding the weapon and rolling her eyes at him. “You’re all pathetic,” she says. “Sheriff, would you escort me back to the lab, perhaps?” 

The Sheriff clears his throat. “Yes, of course, Ms. Martin.” 

“Thank you,” Lydia says politely, and grips him by the elbow, leading him out the door. 

They disappear. 

Derek turns around and stares at Stiles. “Well,” he says finally. “Guess I’ll call the Captain and tell him I’m ready to come home.” 

“The case isn’t solved yet,” Stiles says, eyes widening. 

“Right but –” 

“But nothing, you can’t just _leave._ ” 

“What, like you didn’t just leave?” Derek snarls. 

Stiles snaps his mouth closed. 

++ _Then_ ++

Derek wakes up in a hospital bed, with his entire front aching. There are bandages wrapped around him completely, bright spots of red dotting against them. He thinks it’s probably not good. His room is filled with flowers, the pollen making him want to sneeze. He struggles to sit up, but it hurts too much. When he curls his hands into fists, a paper makes a crinkling noise. Derek pulls it out and unfolds it. 

_Sorry._

There’s an ache in the back of Derek’s throat, the kind that makes him want to throw up just a little. 

It’s Stiles’ handwriting.

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Stiles_

He goes home. 

Not to his dad’s house, but to his own apartment, where, predictably, the Chinese food is still sitting out on his counter. Stiles loves Scott, but he never really follows through on the things he promises much. He’s smart – has taken over the local veterinarian’s office, but sometimes just the simplest things will still astound Scott. Stiles sighs and throws everything away before wiping the counter down and shutting the kitchen light out. He walks back into his living room, where he’s promptly smacked over the head with something. 

When he wakes up, he’s tied up. 

In his own fucking kitchen chair. “Fuck,” Stiles hisses, trying to loosen his bondage. 

“Well, look at the pretty boy struggle,” a sharp voice says. Stiles snaps his head up. He’s only ever heard that voice twice in his life. Once at graduation when she came to see Allison, and once, just two years ago, when he was apologizing to Kate and Allison, so sorry because their entire family had just _burned_ in a house fire. 

“Kate,” he swallows. 

She claps, long and slow and sarcastic. “Give the boy a gold star,” she says, stepping into the moonlight. “Tell me what you did with it, Stiles.” 

“Did with what?” Stiles decides to try and play innocent and confused, first. He’ll panic later. Kate gives him a wicked grin. In the palm of her hand, something glints dangerously. 

“Stiles,” she says sweetly, “I really don’t want to use this, but I will if I have to.” She’s lying, saying exactly the opposite of what she wants, Stiles realizes. She’s just _waiting_ to use her knife on him, and the thought makes something sick and terrified tug at the pit of his stomach. 

“Well, I hate to let you down,” he says just as sweetly, grinning at her. The smile slips from her face and she steps forward. 

“We can start with this pretty chest,” she purrs, running her hands down his chest. Stiles shivers, looks down, and just now realizes he’s shirtless. “One more chance,” Kate offers, brow arched, expectant. 

“I’d answer your question, honestly, if I knew what you were talking about. Have you talked to a psychiatrist recently? I had this case once, back in New York, guy was delirious, suffering from PTSD-induced hallucinations – could happen to anyone, I guess – ugh,” he chokes, as Kate runs the blade of the knife in a deep line that splits apart, blood starting to spill from it. It runs sluggishly at first, slowly dripping down his chest. 

“Maybe my initials,” Kate says thoughtfully, watching his blood run. It _drip drip drips_ down to the hardwood floor, and Stiles thinks, _that is going to stain these floors._ “I always did like… marking things.” 

“Good job,” Stiles says weakly, finally snapping his gaze up from the wound. 

“Oh, honey,” Kate sighs. “We’re just getting started.” 

++

“So maybe,” Stiles heaves a breath through his mouth, trying not to breathe through his nose. He hates the smell of blood, and it’s everything. Kate had gotten him deep last time, deep enough to need stitches. 

Deep enough that he could bleed out if help didn’t get here soon. 

“Maybe what?” Kate asks, twirling her knife around. Blood trickles down her wrist to drop off at her elbow onto the floor. The hardwood floors are covered in it now. Anyone who isn’t careful enough will slip and fall into a huge puddle of Stiles-colored DNA. 

“You could tell me why?” Stiles coughs and swears he tastes blood. 

Kate twirls her knife one more time before she wipes it on her jeans. “Come on, Stiles. You haven’t put it together yet?” 

“Can’t say I have,” Stiles replies. Coughs again. 

“It was up to you,” she says slowly, stepping forward to run her knife along his cheekbone. She doesn’t sink in yet, and some selfish, vain part of Stiles really hopes she never does because shit, he doesn’t want a scarred up face. “You were supposed to find them and put them behind bars, and you _didn’t_. I know it was my fault, but I couldn’t get revenge on them – you were supposed to get _justice._ ” 

“Are you talking about the fire?” Stiles asks. “Because that was an _accident._ ” Kate grins, presses the knife a little harder, still no blood, before pulling back, looking manic.

“I’m not ready to ruin your pretty face,” she coos, and then continues. “Looks like you’re not such a great detective after all, Stilinski. No. It wasn’t an accident. They burned my family because I couldn’t pay them back.” 

“Maybe you could have said something,” Stiles offers. 

“For what?” Kate snarls, whirling around. “So I could go to jail? And Allison could lose the last of her family? So I could spend time in prison because I was in so much debt with loan sharks and drug dealers that they _killed my family_? That’s not fair, Stiles. I don’t deserve that. You were supposed to figure it out, though. You were a good detective, I researched it whenever I learned you were on the case. You were supposed to realize it was _arson and murder._ ” 

“Yeah,” Stiles slurs, fading out just a little. “’s a shame someone didn’t tell me I should be looking for that in the first place.” 

“You little asshole,” Kate snarls, stepping forward. “I was getting revenge. You couldn’t help me, and now no one will help you.” 

“Seriously,” Stiles murmurs. “A _psychiatrist._ ” 

“I’m going to –” 

The door smashes open. 

++ _Then_ ++

Stiles spends days holding his hand and he never wakes up. He whispers prayers like he hasn’t since the last time he sat next to a hospital bed for so long. He promises to be a better person, to try harder, to be safer. He promises he’ll quit his job or actually tell Derek he loves him, if Derek just _pulls through._ He promises to apologize a thousand times over for Derek once again having to step in front of him and save his ass. 

Derek never wakes up. 

Something breaks inside Stiles and he can’t be there to watch him die, can’t be there to listen to the doctors tell him he’s _still not out of the woods yet._ The captain comes in on Thursday and Stiles tells him he’s going back home. He doesn’t even try to look upset or surprised. “You need a vacation, I understand,” Cap says. 

“No,” Stiles says. There’s a rushing in his ears. “No, I’m going home for good.” 

“Son, I know you feel guilty or responsible, but Derek is your partner, these things will happen. There’s counseling and –” 

“How many people have taken a bullet for you two separate times?” Stiles asks loudly. The Captain closes his mouth. “Twice, not just once, Jesus. Twice, he’s almost died. And for _what?_ for some young, mouthy cop? It’s not worth it, and you know it, Cap.” 

“I think you’re worth it,” the Captain mumbles. “I think you’re the best damn detective I’ve ever had.” 

Stiles disagrees. The best damn detective the captain has ever had is lying in a hospital bed _dying._

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Derek_

There's blood everywhere. Derek briefly wonders if this terrified, disgusting feeling is what Stiles felt when he was shot in that alleyway that night. If it was what Stiles felt that first time Derek was shot trying to protect him. A deputy has to take Kate away in handcuffs, because the Sheriff and Derek are both kneeling over Stiles, trying to keep him awake. 

“Hey, Stiles,” Derek pats his cheek. “Come on, stay awake.” 

Stiles grins, blood smeared across his chin. He looks like a horror movie victim. “Hey,” he slurs out. “Didn’t get to play white knight today, didja baby?” 

“Baby?” Derek asks him blankly. 

“You seem like a baby to me,” Stiles mumbles. Derek doesn’t want to move him, and the ambulance is still two minutes away. He can barely hear the sirens. 

“Hang in there, and you can call me whatever you want, snookums,” Derek replies, reaching down and gripping Stiles’ hand. 

“That bitch was _psy-cho,_ Stiles wheezes out, laughing. Then he frowns. “It hurts to laugh.” 

“So stop thinking you’re funny,” Derek says. 

Stiles slants one eye open. “You were never so mouthy before,” he says, yawning. 

“Guess you could say you had an influence on me, being gone.” 

“Does that mean you _missed_ me?” Stiles hiccoughs. 

Derek leans forward, brushing hair out of Stiles’ eyes. He kisses his forehead, the only part of Stiles that isn’t somewhat covered in blood. “Maybe,” he says. 

Stiles opens both eyes and stares brightly, feverishly up at Derek. “Hey,” he rasps. “Is that a gun in your pocket or are you just –” 

“EMTs are here,” Derek says loudly, blushing, and stepping back. He unclips his gun from his belt and scrubs at his face, sighing exhaustedly. 

Derek follows the ambulance to the hospital. A dark haired woman takes one look at him before she points to a bathroom. “Clean yourself up. The Sheriff is in the waiting room. I was just headed in to sit next to him.” 

“You know Stiles?” Derek blurts out, wringing his hands together. The woman smiles kindly. 

“His whole life. Used to babysit him and he and my son grew up together.” 

“You’re… Scott’s mom,” Derek says slowly, staring at the floor. He remembers the stories Stiles used to tell him, about all the trouble he and Scott got into while they were in high school. 

Scott’s mom reaches out and touches a hand to his shoulder. “Get cleaned up,” she says softly. “I’ll have a cup of coffee waiting for you. Scott, Allison, and Lydia should be here soon.” 

++

It’s a terribly long wait, Derek thinks, to find out if the love of your life is dead or not.

He owes Stiles so many apologies when – if – _when_ he wakes up. 

+ _Stiles_ +

Stiles dreams a lot. First there’s pain, bright and bloody and hot. Then there’s Derek, laughing down at him. There’s Derek and him going out for their first celebratory beer in New York, but instead of parting ways afterwards, Stiles reels Derek in and kisses him. There’s Derek, grinning against his lips as he kisses him. Derek chasing him through a house that looks strangely a lot like the one Stiles grew up in. Derek fighting with him but always making up with him. 

Stiles likes the dreams, but there’s a tugging at his navel calling him back to the surface, and he doesn’t want to fight it. He wants to _see_ the real Derek, to touch him. This is all a pretty façade, and Stiles loves it, he does, but he knows it can’t last, that he has to come back. 

So he does. 

“Hey,” he rasps around the tube in his mouth. 

Derek snaps his head up. “Ohmigod Stiles,” he breathes, jumping out of his chair and rushing forward. He runs his fingers over Stiles’ cheek and then grabs the call button and hits it repeatedly. 

Nurses and doctors come in for the next hour, pulling the tube in his mouth out, checking his vitals and then his wounds, asking him questions. When they’re all gone, and Stiles is exhausted from the sheer _thought_ of answering more questions, he turns to Derek and asks them anyway. 

“How long ‘s it been?” 

“Three and a half days.” Derek is fidgeting nervously. Stiles nods. 

“You find out why she did it?” 

“Went crazy when her family died, as far as we can tell. Convinced herself that you would figure out who had killed her brother and father and sister-in-law and arrest them, and then snapped when you didn’t. She didn’t have any idea herself, because she had so many people after her with the debt she’d created. So she came to visit Allison and was staying with her and overheard her talking to Lydia about her top-secret project. Did some research, put two and two together, and got this huge idea in her head that if no one on the force could figure it out, she’d wipe them all out.” 

“How’d she get in?” 

“Stalked Lydia a few days. Used a coffee cup with her prints on it to get in, and then watched Lydia carefully to memorize her codes. She stole the files to figure out how it worked; she knew what she was looking for but she still had no idea just how many deaths she’d be responsible for if it’d detonated.” 

“Psycho,” Stiles mutters, yawning. 

“Stiles, go to sleep,” Derek says, and his lips are twitching, trying not to smile fondly, Stiles can tell. 

“Whatever you say,” Stiles sighs. “Sweetiepie.” 

++ _Then_ ++

There is a moment, right when they meet, that Stiles thinks, _I could really fall in love with this man._

And he doesn’t even try to fight it.

++ _Now_ ++  
 _Derek_  
Derek used to try and fight falling in love with Stiles all the time. Stiles didn’t want him, Stiles was too good for him, Stiles could never love someone so angry and damaged, and man who had lost his whole family, who expressed his anger with biting words and dangerous looks, who sometimes went a little rough on suspects. 

But Stiles _does_ want him, Stiles _does_ love him, and Derek still thinks Stiles is too good for him but… but he’s not going to fight it anyway. 

He calls the Captain and tells him he’s not coming back to New York to work. He takes Stiles back to his apartment – freshly cleaned by first the crime lab, and then by Derek as an extra measure – the moment the hospital releases him. Stiles doesn’t once argue – he complains a lot, as always – but he never argues with Derek, or tells him to leave. He pats his cheek, calls him baby, sweetheart, sweetie, peach, lover, every embarrassing thing he can think of. 

Derek calls him honey and tootsie, and snookums and babyface in retort, and Scott gags at them while Allison rolls her eyes, and the Sheriff tries not to look too fond. 

“You’ve got to stop babying me, babycakes,” Stiles says one day, three weeks later. “I’m healing up. Doctor just approved me for slightly more strenuous activities.” Stiles winks. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “Well, _darling_ , excuse me for being worried.” 

Stiles frowns. “You’re allowed to be worried. I’m not mad or anything about you being worried. It’s just – I can make it to the bathroom by myself.” 

Derek crosses his arms and clenches his jaw. Stiles blinks at him, confused for a moment, before he says slowly, “Derek… do you think I’m going to kick you out the moment I’m better?” 

Derek hesitates before shrugging. 

“Because I’m _not_ , oh my god, I’m totally not. Derek, my dad told me about you staying.” 

Derek raises his head to meet Stiles’ gaze. “He did?” He sounds hoarse, worried, and nervous, Derek knows this. But he’s hesitant, in case Stiles doesn’t accept this. 

“Yeah,” Stiles nods quickly. “I mean – think you can handle small town life?” 

“Think you can handle me sticking around?” Derek retorts, walking over to the couch and sitting down next to Stiles. 

“I want you to,” Stiles mumbles. “But I’d understand if you didn’t.” 

“Why wouldn’t I?” Derek tilts his head, watching Stiles carefully. Stiles huffs out a nervous laugh.

“You owe me nothing, Derek. I left you. I got scared and I left you. I get it, you know? You had every right to be mad at me and that night at the station, before the bomb…” Stiles swallows. “I treated you like shit. I treated you like shit, like it was your fault I left New York, when the truth is, they kept saying all these things and I – I couldn’t stick around and watch you die. I couldn’t watch someone I loved die again.” 

It’s the truth, Derek can tell by the haunted look in Stiles’ eyes. 

“I don’t blame you,” Derek says softly. 

Stiles reaches out and grips his hand. “You should.” 

“But I don’t,” Derek replies, looking up and offering him a smile. “You were right, too. I… I played White Knight all the time. I got reckless when it came to making sure you would be okay. Sometimes it wasn’t necessary. But that night – God, Stiles, I can’t imagine if that had been you. Neither of us had vests on, you could’ve – you would’ve…” 

“I know,” Stiles says quietly. “I do. And I’m grateful every day that you saved my life. But I – I didn’t even know if you’d live, you have to understand that. I didn’t know, and I was so scared.” 

“Me, too,” Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand.

++

“So no more like… super fishy potentially probably nuclear weapons, right?” Stiles asks Lydia, taking a sip of coffee. 

They’re in the waiting room of Stiles’ doctor, waiting for Stiles to be approved to go back on active duty. Derek is packing the rest of his things up back in New York before coming back to Beacon Hills. “Shut up, Stiles,” Lydia hisses. 

“I’m just double checking,” Stiles says quickly, “I just want to make sure I’m fully aware of the next time you could maybe wipe out the entire state of California. You know… going out in style.” 

“You mean asking Derek to fuck your brains out before you die,” Lydia corrects, studying her nails. 

“Pfft,” Stiles huffs. “Of course that’s what I mean.” 

Once he’s out of the doctor’s office, he calls Derek. “Hey honey boo boo,” he coos into the phone.

“Stiles,” Derek says, and Stiles can tell he’s trying to smother a laugh. “Please let it go.” 

“What? No. Never. Anyway, guess who is cleared to go back to work… among _other_ things?” 

There’s a pause. Then Derek says, “I have my flight booked for the next red eye out.” And there’s a click, signaling Derek has hung up. Stiles presses the end button on his phone, smiling smugly. Lydia rolls her eyes and punches him in the shoulder before dropping him off at the police station. 

“No,” the Sheriff says when he sees Stiles. Stiles frowns. 

“What did I do?” 

“You’re _here._ You’re not allowed to be here.” 

“I got cleared!” Stiles protests. 

“I just mean you’re not allowed to be here until you get rid of some of that energy,” the Sheriff tells him. “You’ve been bouncing off the walls since Derek _left._ Please get out of my site, Stiles. I don’t want to shoot you so soon after you’ve nearly died.” 

Stiles says, “ _Rude,_ ” and walks over to his dad’s desk, picking up the keys to his car. “I just came to get these anyway. I have to go pick Derek up at the airport. He took the red eye when he found out my doctor said I’m healthy again.” 

“Shut up,” the Sheriff says, covering his ears. “I don’t want to know. Get out. Before I have to _shoot my own son._ ” 

Stiles offers him a grin and then leaves the station with pats on the back from other officers. 

++

Six hours later he meets Derek next to Gate A with a sign that says MISSED U HUNNY and a grin. Derek takes one look at the sign and keeps walking. “Derek – hey – _hey,_ ” Stiles shouts, catching up to him. “I thought the sign was a nice touch. A very nice old lady next to me thought it was, too.” 

“Remind me why I’m transferring here again?” Derek asks, scowling at him.

“Because you love me, of course,” Stiles tells him generously. “Now where’s my ‘I missed you, too!’ kiss?” 

“You’re not getting one until you discard of that sign,” Derek says, pointing at the atrocity Stiles is still holding. 

“I put a lot of work into this sign,” Stiles says, pouting. “There was glitter involved. I’m still wearing half of it.” 

“I don’t want glitter. I’m starting to rethink wanting _you._ ” 

“ _Hurtful,_ ” Stiles sniffs. “I was going to offer you really awesome car sex.” 

Derek slaps a hand against his face and keeps walking out. 

++

“Okay, in all honesty, I really do want sex.” 

They’re back in Stiles apartment, and Stiles is bouncing in place with overwhelming energy. He’s excited to have Derek back, he’s happy because he and Derek finally _have_ something, and he’s grateful to be alive. In the kitchen, Derek is doing the last of the late-late-night dinner dishes. It’s near four in the morning but Stiles is wide awake. Judging from the way Derek tenses momentarily when Stiles says _sex_ , Derek is pretty awake, too. 

“Are you –” 

“Please don’t ask me if I’m sure like some blushing virgin bride or something,” Stiles says quickly, standing up from the kitchen chair. “Take me to bed, Detective.” 

Derek looks pained when he turns around to look at Stiles. “Please don’t.”

Stiles grins. “You don’t like pulling rank in bed? Come on, Detective,” Stiles steps in closer, wrapping two fingers in Derek’s belt loops, tugging him closer. “Where’s your gun?” 

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek breathes out, leaning forward and kissing him hard. 

Regardless of the fact that it’s been a long time coming, and it seems like it should be frantic and messy and fast, Derek takes his time breaking Stiles apart. He carries him to the bedroom and lays him on the bed and kisses along his neck and his shoulders, down his chest, peeling clothes off as he goes. By the time he reaches the waistband of Stiles’ jeans, Stiles is clenching his hands into the sheets, eyes shut tight, little whimpers slipping out of his mouth. “Please touch me,” he gasps as Derek places a kiss in the divot of his hip, where the V of his hipbone trails down into his jeans, disappearing like a happy present waiting to be unveiled. 

“I am touching you,” Derek murmurs. He reaches up and starts kissing along the scars Stiles already wears proudly. It took Derek months to be able to look in the mirror again after he was shot; took him months to accept that those four bullet scars meant _life_ , that he was still alive and breathing, and that they weren’t ugly – they told a story. Stiles seems to already have accepted it; he goes shirtless around the apartment, he never stops to stare at them in the mirror, and he has never once voiced how he wished they weren’t there. Sometimes Derek catches him about to put his shirt on, fingering one of the deeper, redder, more twisted ones, grimacing for just a moment, but it’s the closest he’s ever come to voicing his regrets. 

“ _Derek,_ ” Stiles murmurs when Derek takes his jeans and boxers off in one swift movement before leaning back down to place a kiss on Stiles’ thigh. Stiles’ foot twitches, kicks up against Derek’s back lightly. Derek should’ve known he’d never be able to stay still in bed. He smirks and kisses along Stiles thigh, before sinking his teeth into Stiles’ hipbone, hard enough to leave a bruise. 

Derek likes the thought of that. Likes that Stiles will be wearing a mark from Derek, will look in the mirror and see something that says _Derek was here,_ and _Derek cares,_ and _Derek needs you._ He bites the other hipbone too, just so they match, and revels in the sound of Stiles’ moan. “Please,” Stiles whimpers. “Derek, _please._ ” 

Derek looks at Stiles, sex-stupid and lust-blown, lips parted, wet and shiny, the blush on his cheeks turning redder the longer he looks at him, his long fingers curled into the sheets, clenching and clenching, knuckles turning bone-white trying to keep a grasp on his control. He looks his fill, looks at Stiles’ stomach quivering with need, look at Stiles’ cock jumping just a little with every touch of Derek’s fingertips against Stiles’ skin. 

He thinks this might be his new favorite place for Stiles. 

“Derek I’mna come,” Stiles slurs out the moment Derek wraps a hand around his cock. 

Derek leans in, presses a kiss against the side of Stiles’ forehead, and then one on his lips. Derek jerks him twice, whispers in his ear, “Good, I want you to,” and Stiles lets out a groan, coming the moment Derek kisses his cheek, arching up against Derek’s chest. 

Derek touches him, pets him and soothes him back down to earth, and when he’s finally caught his breath, Stiles squints up at him. “I don’t usually do that,” he says. 

“Sure,” Derek smiles, unbuttoning his own jeans and getting a hand around his cock. 

“Listen here, sweetcheeks,” Stiles says, leaning forward and wrapping his own hand around Derek’s cock, stroking him with Derek, pressing a kiss against Derek’s shoulder. “I’m awesome at sex.” 

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, panting when Stiles does this little twist with his wrist. “Yeah, you are.”

“Love you,” Stiles mumbles against his skin, and Derek never imagined he’d be someone cheesy enough to come when an affection was whispered in his ear like that, but he is, he comes the moment Stiles says it, and it’s the best feeling he’s ever felt. 

++

There is a moment, the first time they meet, that they both think, _he could be it for me._

And they’re not wrong.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested you can find me on tumblr @ dylanobilinksi.


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